The whole work of Carlos Albalá moves with subtle differences through a sort of twilight zone, a region seemingly remote and marginal when compared to the known world that rests on the solid foundations of habits, and is made up of places firmly anchored to everyday human activities. In the urban periphery usually explored by the Spanish photographer, the temporal dimension seems to be jammed, almost piling up, and is replaced by an empty suspension that is typical of places in ruins, often fragments of a future so close that we could assume it to be a kind of archeology of the present. When the black of the unknown invades these spaces to become matter itself, as in the recent series “From Nowhere Onwards”, then it becomes almost impossible to find a chink in the dark and not to be afraid of what is waiting for us, frightening and stealthy, somewhere, out there. The objects, the rooms that contain them, the same places from which to flee, as memories and regrets, and perhaps even hopes and what still needs to happen, everything is left behind and lost, in the night